When There's a Will
by jojospn
Summary: Slight twist to "When There's a Will, There's a War." Set one year after GFA.


**A/N: Loosely based on "When There's a Will, There's A War." I know that this concept has been done to death but I can't shake the need to write at least** _ **something**_ **about such an amazing episode. No copyright infringement intended.**

 **When There's a Will**

 _ **Boston, Massachusetts**_

When Charles Winchester first saw the package with its Maine postscript, the surgeon's primary response, in all honesty, was surprise. Hawkeye had been the only one he'd known from the state, and he'd been buried weeks ago. To survive three years under enemy fire only to be killed in a car crash less than a year after returning stateside seemed like a cruel, sadistic joke. Charles had never been as close to Pierce as Hunnicutt had been, but their relationship had grown, as most of those from comrades in war have a way of doing, to one of mutual respect and, perhaps, even fondness. The cliché "war is hell" was indeed an accurate one, and while Charles had indulged in Bach and Beethoven as a means of stress relief, so had Pierce relied on women, alcohol, and humour. He smiled, remembering the many practical jokes he had fallen victim to, and even chuckled at the ultimate prank Hunnicutt had orchestrated on the man who claimed could never fall prey to practical jokes.

The chuckles faded as Charles remembered the rather grim task at hand, and carried his package into the study, carefully slitting the tape across its front with a letter opener. A quick glance at the contents revealed a sheet of type written paper and, of all things, a faded bathrobe. Pulling the garment from the box and raising it to eye level, Charles immediately recognized it as one of the two robes Pierce had worn during his three year stint in Korea. Immediately he deduced that the paper enclosed with the old robe was a copy of the former chief surgeon's last will and testament. But why bequeath such a seemingly insignificant gift? Curious, Charles carefully folded the bathrobe, trying not to wince at the moth eaten smell, and pulled out the sheet of paper, reading a section underlined in ink:

 _To Charles Emerson Winchester III: during the dark days of war, made himself available. You have been the victim of a ceaseless stream of dumb jokes. Though we may have wounded your pride you've never lost your dignity. Therefore I bequeath to you the most dignified thing I own: my bathrobe. Purple is the colour of royalty._

Charles set down the paper, glancing at the robe beside him. Smiling, he picked up the garment, eying it no longer with disdain but with a respect for its late owner he had not felt in a while.

XXX

 _ **St. Christopher's Orphanage, * Philadelphia, Pennsylvania**_

"Father, there's a letter for you."

Father Francis Mulcahy smiled at the young woman, voice rose through the crowded mess hall, small hands signing furiously. She stopped before the kindly priest, pulling an envelope from the pocket of her dress. Around them, the other orphans, most of them with total hearing loss, were enjoying their lunch, hands flying in various flurries of excitement. Mulcahy smiled at the small group, smiling sadly as one little boy sniffed apprehensively at his meal. Hawkeye had always made a show about smelling his food before eating, usually with a rather disgusting comment and/or wisecrack about the latest mystery meat the US Army would be providing. The father pulled off his glasses and dabbed at his eyes with a tissue, the memory of his friend too painful. The trip to Maine he had always dreamed of having as a young lad had been a sombre one, having been chosen by Hawkeye's father to officiate his former comrade's funeral. Though he had been far from surprised to have been given the honour of leading a celebration of life should his friend pass on before he, Mulcahy had not expected that day to be so soon.

"Father?" The girl tapped the padre's shoulder, snapping him back to reality. He signed a quick _thank you_ before accepting the envelope and glancing at the return address. At the sight of the Crabapple Cove postmark the smile faltered slightly, and Mulcahy's eyes once again grew misty.

 _Father, what's wrong?_ The young woman's eyes looked worried as she signed, and Mulcahy smiled in reassurance. "Don't worry, my child, it's fine. I just received something regarding a dear friend of mine who's passed on." The girl nodded in understanding. Signing and speaking a quick _I'm sorry,_ she left, leaving the father alone with his letter. He wanted desperately to open it, but there were still a room full of hungry boys and girls who needed supervising during their lunch. Carefully, he tucked the letter into his jacket, returning to his task at hand. It was not until later that night, in the privacy of his room, when the priest remembered the envelope still tucked safely in his coat. Carefully Mulcahy slit it open, and a nickel tumbled out onto his lap, along with a carefully folded sheet of paper.

 _To Father Francis Mulcahy, I leave five cents._

Mulcahy picked up the shiny piece, memories of Korea flooding back.

" _Get away from me! If you weren't a priest, your life wouldn't be worth a plugged nickel!"_

General Kratzer and his gourmet meal in the VIP tent. Indulging on pheasant and baked Alaska while the enlisted were forced to wait for their slop and the soldiers in post op, the ones who had actually _fought_ at the front, were left with nothing but IVs for nourishment. Hawkeye had been livid, risking a court martial and possibly even prison time, with his heated riot. It had been Mulcahy who had diffused the situation, effectively ruining the man's meal while keeping a level head. The priest smiled, remembering the genuine laughter escaping Hawkeye's lips as he marched out of the tent, a satisfied smile on his face.

 _You're a man of God. I know worldly possessions mean little to you, Father. So I leave you a nickel, along with something I value more highly than anything I own: my everlasting respect._

Mulcahy gently picked up the nickel, so uncommon under normal circumstances, and rolled the coin between his fingers, the metal warm to the touch. Slowly, he sat up and pulled out his worn Bible, tucking the coin beneath the pages. No, it was not worth much, a seemingly trifle token passed from one consumer to another without much thought, but to Mulcahy, it was priceless.

"Bless you, Hawkeye," he said, and closing his eyes, said a small prayer for a grieving father in Crabapple Cove.

XXX

 _ **Buffalo, New York**_

Initially she had found him to be insufferable. Ever the army brat with a no nonsense military upbringing, Margaret Houlihan had always respected her father's strict, disciplinary ways, and had resented Hawkeye Pierce when he had first rode into the 4077th, quite possibly either soused or teetering dangerously close to the edge. His utter disregard for the regulations, lessez-faire attitude, and functioning alcoholism were redeemed only by his excellent skills as a surgeon and the genuine care he showed the patients. Those qualities made his crazy and highly unprofessional schemes with McIntyre (and later, Hunnicutt) highly unprofessional antics at least somewhat bearable.

As time wore on, following the end of her romance with Frank Burns, and subsequent marriage and divorce from Donald Penobscott, Margaret had slowly begun to lift the veil of military strictness, relaxing around her nurses and actually having fun. She had also begun to see Pierce (rarely Hawkeye, some habits died hard) as more than just a colleague, but a good friend. Perhaps too good at times. Though they had mended their already strained relationship following that night behind enemy lines, Margaret's fear induced affair with the surgeon had nearly cost both of them their friendship. And yet in the months following, Margaret had begun to see the man behind the crude jokes and unprofessional behaviour: she saw someone who hated the death and destruction and filth that surrounded him; who despised being a cog in the endless conveyor belt of patching up boys only for them to be killed at the front. Who would willingly break protocol and not give a damn if it meant obtaining the incubator that would save a life or scrounging much needed vials of penicillin, or even providing war weary men and women with something half decent to eat for a change.

And that final day in Korea, when he had kissed Hawkeye goodbye as the remnants of their home collapsed before them, Margaret at last realized that she saw Benjamin Franklin Pierce as more than just a friend. She loved him, more than she had ever felt for Frank or Donald. Her heart had skipped a beat when she felt his hand gently cup the side of her face, his kiss leaving her breathless. When at last they pulled apart and Hawkeye had called out that overly casual "well, so long," she had honestly thought that she would see him again. Her father's connections (not to mention her excellent skills as head nurse) would see that she find work anywhere, and there were plenty of options in either Boston or, better still, Portland, Maine. Never did Margaret Houlihan believe that those three little words, uttered so casually from the man she had grown to love, would be the last she'd ever hear.

When Margaret had learned that Hawkeye had been killed (and in a goddamned _car accident,_ of all things), she had been devastated. Always hard working and dedicated, she became even more so, clocking more hours of overtime than necessary. She would return home exhausted, where she would fall into fitful sleep almost immediately. Concerned colleagues had tried to encourage her to take a vacation, perhaps a week at the beach or in New England's cottage country. But the thought of lakeside cottage retreats made her think of Crabapple Cove, the home Hawkeye had shared of and dreamed of returning. And so she had politely declined, thanking the girls for their help, and returning to work with a grim determination.

And five weeks following Hawkeye's death, Margaret had finally begun to return to normal. Though she still grieved, she found that she was clocking in fewer overtime hours, and that sleep would come natural instead of with the aid of a few tumblers full of brandy or scotch. She had even found herself smiling and laughing again.

And now, here she stood in her kitchen, the package with the Crabapple Cove postmark sitting innocently on the table. At first, she regarded the box as if it were a live grenade, wanting desperately to return the pin but terrified to even touch it. "Get a hold of yourself, Major," she told herself, breathing in deeply. "It's just a box. You were fired upon, shelled, faced death on what seemed like a weekly basis, and you're scared of a goddamned _box._ " The words provided the necessary encouragement, and Margaret grabbed a steak knife and broke open the seal. Carefully, she unwrapped the layers of tissue paper, and immediately recognized its contents.

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Those hideous Groucho glasses Hawkeye would wear, sometimes to cheer up patients in post op, sometimes just to annoy the hell out of anyone of authority. They were his _fuck you_ to the army and all that was associated with it. But why on earth would he want her to have them? Confused, she set the glasses aside and pulled out the accompanying sheet, reading the underlined section:

 _To Margaret Houlihan: To you, Margaret, I leave my treasured Groucho nose and glasses. Maybe they'll remind you of that silly side you show all too infrequently._

" _Where's the stupid sulfa?"_

" _The sulfa's in the living room between the end tables."_

The jokes had been a result of exhaustion, like the majority of the few wise cracks Margaret had slipped out over the years. She and Hawkeye had spent several minutes in the storage shed, laughing hysterically at medical puns as Nurse Kelley looked on in confusion. He'd been confused at the remark, almost rendered speechless by the fact that Margaret Houlihan had actually come up with something funny. She'd apologized, of course, and a delighted Hawkeye had gleefully egged her on. "He'd seemed so surprised," she muttered, setting the paper down and reaching for the glasses. Those ridiculous things she had always wished would get lost among the mess inside the Swamp. Even now she wasn't sure if she truly wanted to keep the spectacles or burn them. She chose instead to forget about them, hiding the glasses in back of her dresser drawer. Maybe in time she would be able to look at them and laugh, but for now they served only to be a painful reminder of the man she had worked with for three years and had only really gotten to know as the war drew to a close.

XXX

 _ **Hannibal, Missouri**_

In all honesty, Sherman Potter had never really cared for James Fenimore Cooper's style of writing. He'd tried his debut novel, _Precaution,_ by request of Mildred, and had been bored to tears. Zane Grey had always been his cup of tea, and not the Jane Austen drivel she tended to favour. The Revolutionary War epic _The Spy_ favoured better, but Sherman still would always turn to his go to copy of _The Last Trail_ when given the choice. Always a lover of all things horses and Wild West, the former colonel would sometimes read until the wee hours of the morning, much to the chagrin of the missus.

Mildred, of course, was well aware of Sherman's love of all things Zane Grey and the rather colourful language he'd used to describe _Precaution._ "This is horse hockey!" he'd proclaimed, slamming the volume closed and tossing it in the trash (later to be rescued by Mildred herself, who had borrowed the book from a friend). "Who wants to read about morals and manners when you can hit the trail with Zane and Wetzel?" To which Mildred had replied with a tired "you'd be surprised, Sherm," and headed outside to weed the nasturtiums.

But this particular night, with Mildred beside her with her own book, Sherman Potter opened up a worn copy of _The Last of the Mohicans,_ a lump forming in his throat as he read the inscription: _To Hawkeye with love from Dad._ Simple, a loving scribble any parent would write for their child. A father who was now grieving his only child. Quickly Sherman flipped the page, cleared his throat, and began to read.

"I thought you didn't like Cooper."

"I don't particularly care for him."

"And yet you're reading something of his," Mildred persisted, leaning closer for a look. " _The Last of the Mohicans._ "

"It's a mighty good yarn, from what I hear," Sherman continued, setting the book down on his lap. "And truth be told, I would've never picked it up before today. This book actually belonged to an army buddy of mine. Well, I was his CO, so I guess we were more like good friends."

"From Korea?" Mildred asked softly, gently laying a hand on her husband's shoulder.

"Affirmative. He made it home only to be killed in an automobile accident a month or so back."

Mildred shook her head sadly, squeezing Sherman's arm in sympathy. "I'm so sorry, dear."

The old colonel sighed, kissing his wife gently on the forehead. "He once told me I was like a father to him. He and his Daddy were mighty close. His mother died when he was still a lad, he told me. This here book was given to him by his father about the time he was drafted."

Sherman picked up the book, his once steady grasp trembling slightly as he turned to the first page. "If you don't mind, Mildred, but I think I'll get me a drink. Would you like one?" The kindly woman declined, and watched as her husband slowly left their bedroom, his step a little slower than it had been even since his return from Korea. Though he had said little about his friend's death, it must have been harder on him than he had let on. For a moment she lay there, listening to the sound of heavy footsteps descending the stairs, followed by the groan of the liquor cabinet opening. Her gaze fell to the book, and the sheet of paper tucked neatly at the back. Picking up the worn volume, Mildred Potter carefully pulled out the sheet of paper and began to read.

 _To Sherman Potter: You not only knew what to say, but what not to say. My dad's a lot like that. It makes me miss him a little less, knowing that you're around. My father called me Hawkeye after the character from_ The Last of the Mohicans. _It's his favorite book. I'd like you to have the copy he gave me._

"God bless him," Mildred murmured, carefully returning the paper to its place between the pages. Downstairs, she could hear the muffled sounds of a man trying in vain to keep from breaking down before his wife, the attempts more and more futile as the effects of the alcohol began to set in. For a few minutes she also cried softly, heart aching for her husband and the boy's father. But after she had composed herself, Mildred Potter slipped on her robe and made her way downstairs, where the man she loved, the father of her children, was unsteadily pouring yet another glass of bourbon into a tumbler. Gently, she pried the liquor from his hands and led him upstairs.

XXX

 _ **Seoul, Korea**_

Maxwell Klinger heard of his friend's death on a bitter cold afternoon in a Korean refugee camp.

When he first grasped the letter with the Crabapple Cove return address, the jovial corporal turned sergeant let out a delighted whoop. "Captain Pierce! As I live and breathe!" Enthusiastically he gestured for his wife of one year, Soon-Lee, over, grinning from ear to ear. "Soon-Lee! You remember Hawkeye Pierce."

The young woman, cradling her infant daughter in her arms, nodded and made her way over to where Max is opening his letter with typical Klinger gusto. Her smile faltered, however, when she noticed her husband's expression go from eager to stunned. "Max?" she queried. "Something the matter?"

"It's a letter from Daniel Pierce," Max answered softly. "Captain Pierce died a few months ago."

Soon-Lee let out a little gasp, the sudden movement causing the baby in her arms to whimper. Gently the young Korean woman bounced the newborn, kissing her on the forehead, and she soon settled comfortably to sleep.

"What happened?"

"Car crash." Max read the details in disbelief. "Was hit by a drunk driver. God, what a shame."

Soon-Lee nodded again, holding her husband close. "I'm sorry, Max," she murmured. She had only met Captain Pierce briefly before the end of the war, but she had found him to be a warm, gentle man, despite the mental breakdown Max had told her of. In the months following the war he had shared many stories of the stunts he and Captains McIntyre and Hunnicutt had pulled in the past three years. With her limited English, there were some pranks Soon-Lee had found difficult to understand, but the twinkle in Max's eyes were proof enough that there had been never a dull moment at the 4077th.

"There's something else here too," Max continued and pulled out a second sheet a paper. The sight of Hawkeye's will suddenly made the Lebanese tear up. Somehow, this made his friend's death final, not something he had heard in passing. With his wife peering over his shoulder in curiosity, Max read words written what seems to be a lifetime ago.

 _To Maxwell Q. Klinger_ : _You may be one of the all-time scroungers, but when it comes right down to it, you'll give a friend the shirt off your back. So the least I can do is give you the shirt off mine. And not just any old shirt, but my beloved Hawaiian shirt. I hope you'll wear it, even if someday it does go out of style._

"Hey, whadda-ya know? He figured it out," Max smiled sadly. He knew exactly what Hawkeye was referring to in his will. The smile gradually broke out into a grin as he remembered the look of pure delight on his friend's face at the sight of that old copy of _Time._ "This is home!" he'd laughed, flipping through the pages and pointing at the glossy images in the periodical. Sure, traditional Lebanese sausage was hard to come by, but it had been more than worth it to bring even just a little happiness in such a hell hole. Wiping a stray tear, Klinger folded the pages carefully and tucked them in his pocket, as his wife wrapped a comforting arm around his waist. Around them, someone coughed and Maxwell Q. Klinger was once again reminded that he was still in hell.

XXX

 _ **Mill Valley, California**_

"Daddy?"

BJ Hunnicutt was still not really used to sudden noises: a car backfiring, the shutters crashing against the windows in the midst of a windstorm. It has been a year since Korea and, while he had gotten more accustomed to the startling sounds, he still sometimes found his heart leaping into his chest. Even the simple clang of a fork accidentally dropping on a plate would bring BJ back to instruments dropping to the ground in OR. Sometimes, even little Erin, now three and a half, sometimes startled him simply by calling his name. This morning was no exception, as he sat in his study, surrounded by paperwork and bills. The hand holding the manila envelope shook slightly and BJ lowered them, lest his daughter see the tremors. Standing at the door, all childhood innocence, was Erin Hunnicutt, dressed in the pink and while gingham dress her Gramma Hunnicutt had made her, blonde pigtails secured with matching bows. She gazed at her father quizzically, tilting her head in genuine curiosity at her father's tear stained face. "You cryin' Daddy?"

BJ considered lying to her, even considered concocting a phony story about how he had just been slicing onions for the burgers and his eyes were still burning; and decided against it. Erin was still not yet four, her biggest concerns being where her favourite dolly was and staying up past her bedtime. Not death and grief. Not yet. But she is insanely bright for her age, and while she may not understand now, BJ knew that she would understand in time. And so the young surgeon wiped his eyes and gestured his daughter over, sliding the envelope aside as he makes room for the little girl to sit on his desk.

"I'm just really sad, Pumpkin," BJ admitted when Erin once more questioned her father's tears.

"Why?" In little Erin's mind, there was no reason to be sad when Mommy and Daddy were going to take her for ice cream after supper and then, maybe, to the park.

"Do you remember Uncle Hawkeye?"

Erin nodded her head enthusiastically. She had met Uncle Hawkeye a few times since her father's return and had really bonded with him. It was of no surprise to BJ that the little girl would fall for his charm and silly antics; or that Hawk would equally fall in love with her. Fortunately, she had taken his death relatively well, having not known him enough to miss him. And so she responded to her father with a simple "He died, Daddy?" Matter-of-fact, as if talking about her day.

"Yes, Erin. He died." BJ felt a lump forming from beneath his throat and he cleared it.

"Uncle Hawkeye's funny," Erin continued, the use of the present tense as natural as talking to her father. "He makes silly faces." The child giggled at one particular memory and BJ agreed, not bothering to correct her. In due time she will understand about death. "Yeah, he was pretty funny, peanut." For a moment, BJ smiled, fond memories of his days at the 4077th at least temporarily comforting him. But one glance at the envelope at his side caused his smile to falter. "Well, Erin, I have a letter from Uncle Hawkeye."

"Then why are you sad, Daddy?"

"Because I miss him, Darling."

"But why? Did he really die?"

BJ sighed. It was of no surprise that the little girl didn't quite grasp the concept of posthumous mail. Instead he hugged her close, kissing her on the forehead, and told her he's already cheered him up immensely before sending her off to find Peg. He waited until he heard the patter of bare feet climbing up the stairs that he pulled out the envelope and slit it open. Before him was a small stack with names written on them. Immediately he recognized Hawkeye's familiar scrawl and felt once more as if he were about to cry; but instead he poured a glass of scotch from the secret stash hidden in his desk drawer and settled down to read the names. He didn't recognize them, and wondered why his friend would take the time to even jot them down, let alone have them mailed to him after his death. Of course, Hawkeye usually had his reasons, unorthodox as they tended to be, and BJ continued to read, until he stumbles upon one last slip of paper:

 _To Erin Hunnicutt: I leave you a list of men your daddy took care of while he was in Korea. Many of them have him to thank for being alive today. I want you to understand why he was away during those first years of your life. I hope I have the chance to give you this in person but around here you never know._

 _This concludes my last will and testament._

 _Benjamin Franklin Pierce._

BJ once again felt a fresh onslaught of tears and he wiped hem with the back of his hand, sobbing quietly. And yet the tears were not only of grief for his lost friend, the one who had no doubt written these words while away at that Battalion Aid station (the one _he_ should have been at if he hadn't been so gung ho to get a haircut); they are also grateful ones. Erin would not understand now, but those names, men who were now, with any luck, with their own families, would hopefully be a comfort to her someday. In all honesty, they would have been a comfort now if only his best friend could have delivered them personally as he had hoped to do.

And so, with the sound of birds singing and the laughter of his little girl echoing from outside his open study window, BJ Hunnicutt cried. And after his tears are spent, he picked up his pen and some fresh stationary. He didn't know the names of those his friend had himself saved, but he definitely remembered the smiles and laughter he had brought to many, from the wounded and ailing in Post Op to the little girl running in the front yard. He smiled at one particular memory as he began to write to a grieving father in Crabapple Cove.

 _Dear Dr. Pierce…_


End file.
